


The Demon King

by MochibellMayor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Demon King Felix, Enemies to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25286527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MochibellMayor/pseuds/MochibellMayor
Summary: Sylvain fell with a gasp onto the plush covers of the bed, the King moving like lightning to secure his wrists above his head and press a dagger to his neck.He stared up at the face of the man looming over him, long dark hair slipping over his shoulders to drape onto Sylvain’s heaving chest. With narrowed eyes illuminated by the moonlight, one knee supporting him on the bed, he growled, “Move, and I’ll slit your throat.”—To become the new ruler of Faerghus, Sylvain must present the head of the Demon King to the church. However, Felix will prove harder to kill than originally believed, and in the winding corridors of the demon castle, the last thing either of them expects to develop is romance.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

It had been five years since the Scourge of Fhirdiad, and the capital was still in shambles. Sylvain tightened the straps of his gauntlets, the morning light streaming through the latticework window and leaving crisscrossing shadows across the side of his body. He leaned over in his chair to fasten the clasps of his riding boots. Outside, birdsong fluttered on the breeze.

Five years ago, when the kingdom was ravaged by frightful beasts, they had lost the entire royal family. In the ensuing chaos, the holy church took control in an effort to repair the damage done, but they were not equipped to lead an entire land, and Faerghus had begun to stagnate without someone competent at the reins. The church’s rule was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but so far there had been none to rise to the task set forth by the archbishop. To ascend to the throne, one needed to present the head of the Demon King before the church.

The reason for this was a mystery to him. No one from the church had ever explained why they demanded the king’s life, and when asked, hadn’t given a straight answer, so he could only speculate on the topic. Perhaps he was a particularly heinous heretic or was somehow involved in the attack years prior. Not that any of it really mattered to Sylvain, though. All he cared about was the path to becoming the new king. 

The land of Faerghus had been an open wound for too long, and it was in desperate need of attention. The nobility system was stagnating, families with money and power gaining high favor with the church, which they used to sway territories into bolstering their fortunes. Desperate to make back losses, merchants and farmers raised the prices of their goods, and a terrible recession descended upon Faerghus like a funeral shroud. The strain was pulling the kingdom apart by the seams, and Sylvain knew that if he didn’t take action soon, the threadbare ties holding everything together would snap. His own father was one of the worst offenders, generous donations made in order to gain more political power, profiting off the tragedy from years before and placing himself into a desirable position. Sylvain had long been disgusted with his family and those like it, but had never before been old or strong enough to do something about it. Now that he was a grown man, hardened by training and battling the near-constant bandit incursions, he was going to set things right. 

Sylvain stood and grabbed his worn travel bag. He had filled it with necessities for the trip beforehand-- provisions, a map, money for lodging-- and he double-checked that he’d packed everything he needed as he strode across the room. His footsteps thumped dully against the old wood floors, and he slung the bag over his shoulder as he twisted the knob on the door and walked outside. The creak of the hinges cut through the morning stillness, and the birds perched on tree branches took flight at the sudden sound. He lifted a hand to shield against the harsh sunlight shining through the pine trees that surrounded the estate. Spring was beginning to roll in, heralded by the snowdrop blossoms peeking through the swaying grass. 

His breath clouded before his face in the frigid air as he walked down to the stables, greeted by the strong smell of horses and hay. At the sound of his approach, a black mare poked her head out, snorting at the sight of Sylvain. He flashed a bright smile and walked up to rub at the side of her neck. She was a beautiful creature he’d named Radiance, but he usually just called her Raid.

“Hey, girl,” he crooned. “We’re going on a bit of a long trip, okay?” 

She huffed and nosed at his hands, searching for treats. Sylvain smiled and murmured about how he’d been too lax in training her. Still, he pulled an apple from his bag before he set about preparing her for the journey. It was going to be a short while before they could come home, after all.

_ If you come home _ , Sylvain heard his thoughts in Ingrid’s stern, worried voice. He sighed as he continued readying Radiance. He’d have liked to bring her along as backup, but the attack years ago had put further financial strain on her already struggling house. With the officer’s academy in Fhirdiad destroyed, she’d had to give up her aspirations of knighthood and choose between marrying into a wealthy family or receiving sponsorship from the church by becoming a nun. It had been an easy choice for her, and now she lived in a monastery studying holy scriptures. She couldn’t exactly leave at the drop of a hat, as she’d risk her sponsorship being cut, but she was the only person Sylvain had enough faith in to have his back. 

He frowned as he strapped his travel pack to Radiance. Even with all their bickering, he valued Ingrid as a dear friend. When he’d heard the news of her plight, written in a neat letter, the ink obscured in a single spot by a wayward tear, his heart had broken for her. Once he ascended the throne, he’d make sure she saw her dreams fulfilled.

Sylvain glanced over his things once more, a final check that he had everything before mounting his horse and urging her forward.

* * *

Despite the clear skies that had smiled upon Sylvain for the first few days of his journey, dark clouds inevitably crowded the heavens. The rain came down in soft droplets, and he was glad he’d invested in wax-coated traveling gear. Thunder rumbled overhead. Distant trees were little more than smears of dark shapes against the rolling landscape. It smelled of wet earth, the gentle hush of rain mixing with the splash of Radiance’s hooves. Further south, with the mountains behind them blocking the frigid northern winds the weather was warmer, though still chilly. 

Sylvain could tell they’d be crossing into the demon kingdom of Albinea soon, with the change from coniferous to deciduous trees. Their buds were sprouting, branches speckled with tiny green leaves, promising an emerald summer when the seasons turned. At the sound of his trotting horse, a doe pranced away from the dirt path and back into the budding forest. 

The rain continued to fall as he rode, eventually coming upon a cliffside from which he could see the dark spires of the distant castle. Through the fog he could make out the faint outline of the surrounding city, expanding outwards in a radial pattern, a large river running alongside farmland. If he squinted, he could see fishing boats floating on the water. 

The forest crept up against the edge of the kingdom before giving way to buildings and winding streets. Sylvain tugged the reins and clicked his tongue to get Radiance to move again, continuing down the hill towards Albinea. 

* * *

With his hood drawn up, Sylvain finally breached demon territory. Buildings rose up on all sides, dark wooden beams reinforcing the white stucco. Tall, narrow windows glinted in the subdued afternoon light, and rain dripped from the steep roofs and gables. Along the sides of the road stood iron lanterns, glowing bright through the fog. The streets were paved with stones, lined with stalls and vendors calling out rainy weather deals. Around him, people were milling about, flitting from stall to stall for groceries or textiles, the murmur of conversation and the bustling sound of clattering footsteps coloring the air. The townspeople resembled humans enough at first glance, but upon further inspection, Sylvain could see the delicate points to their ears, and the vertical slants to their pupils. When they spoke, their sharp fangs flashed in the dim light. 

He continued on through the streets, the city growing denser and more populated as he neared the castle. He was glad he’d left Radiance in a clearing in the forest at the edge of the kingdom. She didn’t take well to crowds or loud noises. She had plenty of grass to graze on and a dense canopy overhead to shield her from the rain. Still, he worried, and hoped that she would be safe in his time away. 

As he shuffled through the winding streets, he wondered if the Demon King knew of the call for his head by the church. Their lands had historically gone about their affairs separately, due to the mountain range erecting a physical barrier between them. Not much news got through to either side about the other. 

He sighed, the steam of his breath curling from his lips. Soon, he’d be infiltrating the castle walls. Afterward, hopefully he’d make it back to Radiance before the entire army had him drawn and quartered. He pressed onward, moving toward the outline of the castle against the gray sky despite the dark path of his thoughts.

* * *

Felix strode through the grand halls of the castle, footsteps echoing sharply against the polished stone floor. His hair hadn’t been cut since he took the throne several years ago and trailed behind him like ink dropped in water. A dark pair of wings extended from his back, their razor tips nearly brushing the floor as he walked. At his side, his retainer, Ashe, hurried along in step, reading his schedule for the afternoon off a slip of parchment. He tucked a writing board beneath his arm and reached for the quill balanced behind his ear.

“After this audience, you’re needed to review the budget for the reconstruction of the town that was flooded by the river last week. Then it would probably be wise to arrange for a dam to be built to prevent further flooding. After that, you’ve been asked to dispatch a team of knights to address the bandit problem in the northern territories. You’ve also received a stack of letters detailing concerns of local representatives predicting food shortages due to the harsh winter. There were also some complaints raised in the capital regarding buildings that need repairs, and they are asking for a small sum to get work started.”

Felix turned a corner and sighed as Ashe continued to ramble about his endless list of responsibilities. It was shaping up to be another day spent behind a desk pouring over paperwork. He supposed he should have grown used to the static lifestyle of a monarch by now, but it was constant ennui. Day after day of listening to the political woes of neighboring lords, drafting trade agreements, or discussing treaties with border territories. He’d really rather stab his ears out than address the issue of repaving old roads, but someone had to. He had been the only remaining heir after the sudden disappearance of his father and brother years ago, and thus the only one capable of inheriting the throne. He had never planned nor desired to become king of Albinea, but he’d had no choice but to take the crown. 

He slid a finger along the silver scar on his right palm, an identical one slicing horizontally down his left palm. In an oath of fealty to his kingdom, he’d opened his palms and bled upon the altar. For a while afterward, it had been painful to hold a sword, but tracing along these scars renewed a spark of motivation in him. In his oath, he’d made a promise to himself and to his people to be their beacon and shield. If that involved agonizing through meetings and negotiations, then so be it.

With another sigh, he stalked toward the audience chamber and entered, taking his place at the throne towering before the small crowd gathered seeking his attention. A set of gleaming marble stairs separated the raised platform Felix occupied from the crowd below. Behind him, spanning twenty feet up, was an intricate stained glass window glittering in jewel tones, scattering blips of color upon the faces before him. The chamber itself was wide and open, walls curving into a perfect circle, large paneled windows interspersed evenly, letting natural light flood the space on all sides, blue curtains pulled back. The tiles on the floor wound about in a detailed map of the heavens, constellations glittering in flecks of gold. From the domed roof hung a crystal chandelier, catching daylight and throwing even more spots of light spiraling about the lofty area. Had it not been for the rain clouding the skies, the room would have dazzled with coruscating color. 

Just before he addressed those gathered, Felix felt a prickle at the back of his neck. It was a faint thing, something he could easily miss had he been more distracted, but it was there nonetheless. He shifted his eyes around the room. Certainly, he was being stared at by a few pairs of eyes, but nothing seemed off about them that he could discern. Like a pesky gnat, the feeling remained, buzzing about his ears almost inscrutably. He surveyed the room once more but found everything in place. His wings twitched, and he fought the urge to roll his neck and crack his joints to settle his discomfort. 

“Your Majesty? Is something the matter?” Ashe murmured, casting him a worried look, his spring-green eyes filled with concern. A few strands of gray hair slipped from their place behind his ear as he tilted his head, brows furrowed. Felix waved him off, assuring him he was fine, but his wariness remained, stiffening his posture. Was something truly off, or was he just too on edge? Had he slept enough the previous night? Was stress getting to him? Did he need a day off?

Silently groaning, he rubbed his temple just below where the black crown circled his head. He didn’t have the time to be thinking about such trivial things. He had a full schedule and not a moment to waste. Felix pushed the strange feeling to the back of his mind and resolved to deal with it later should it actually devolve into a problem. With a breath, he righted his posture and opened with, “Let us discuss the matter of repaving the roads in the eastern sector.”

* * *

In a stroke of luck, Sylvain had slipped into the castle with a group seeking an audience with the king.  He had pretended to be cold from the rain, tugging the hood of his cloak further down to hide his human features and shivering for effect, teeth chattering and all. The guards had politely let him keep his hood drawn. It had been a bit tricky to slip away from the guards escorting them to the audience chamber, but afterward, Sylvain knew exactly where to find the king. Since then, it had been a matter of side-stepping guards and hiding his presence. The security in the castle ran on shifts from what he could tell, with patrols every half-hour. Keeping this in mind, he shadowed the king for the rest of the day, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

The rain had trickled away hours ago, and the night sky glittered overhead, a full moon winking from behind cotton clouds. A cool breeze brushed through his hair as he inched along a small secluded balcony. He’d had to scale the side of the castle to get here, and he was sure he wouldn’t be seen so high up away from the paths of the patrols. 

Light spilled out along the floor of the balcony, bright gold splitting across darkened blue. Sylvain leaned forward to peer through the glass panes of the door. 

The silhouette of a man hunched over a stack of papers sat at the imposing desk, a hand pushing back his bangs and providing a rest for his forehead. He held a neat quill in his other hand, scratching it along parchment, occasionally pausing to dip it in the black ink vial at his side. His hair was similarly black, obsidian locks trailing down his back and spilling over the seat of his chair, nearly brushing the floor. A commanding pair of wings protruded from his shoulder blades, just as dark, relaxed where he had opened them to sit unobstructed. 

He looked young, for a king. He could not have been any older than Sylvain. There were no lines of age on his face, only creases beneath his eyes from what Sylvain would guess was constant glaring or lack of sleep. 

He took a deep breath and receded back into the shadows as he peered at the man before him, who set his quill down to rub roughly at his face, shoulders rising with the might of his hefty sigh. He slid aside the parchment he had been working on and pulled another document toward him. It had been rinse and repeat like this for two hours now. 

Diligent and meticulous. It was a work ethic Sylvain wanted to emulate when he became King. He wished the path to the throne wasn’t over this man’s dead body, but it was the only method presented to him. He would do what needed to be done. Under different circumstances, had they been different people with normal lives, Sylvain may have tried to flirt with him. He was undeniably handsome, with sharp, cutting features and piercing brown eyes. Sylvain predicted the hard cheekbones followed through along his shoulders, his collar bones, his hips and wrists and lithe ankles. He had noticed these consistencies in past lovers.

Across the study, the tall double doors opened. In walked the Demon King’s retainer, a sweet-faced, earnest young man with hair like cinders and eyes like early spring. He had a smattering of freckles across his nose and carried a silver serving tray with a shining teapot and a small teacup. Steam wafted up from the pot, and the man gave a kind smile as he said something Sylvain couldn’t hear, walking over to set the tray on the desk. 

The king responded with a wave of his hand, voice carrying through the glass of the door enough for Sylvain to make out its cadence but not his words. Watching them like this, Sylvain felt guilt bubble up in his chest, even more so when he heard the soft laughter of the silver-haired man through the door. He poured the King a cup of tea and held it out for him to take. Upon accepting the cup, he held it just before his lips and let the steam float before his face.

The people here relied upon him. He was the stone foundation of the kingdom. From what Sylvain had observed, once he was killed, there was not another in line to take his place. He would trade the stability of this land for the control of his own.

Sylvain shook his head, willing the thoughts away. He couldn’t let emotions rule him like this. He had a job to do, and a goal to fulfill. The problems birthed from his actions were not his to deal with. 

Another bout of ringing laughter floated toward Sylvain on the soft breeze. It seemed the retainer was teasing the King about something, who sulked with a simmering glare as he sipped his tea. Sylvain leaned his ear toward the door in time to hear the sweet-faced man say, “The air outside is really quite lovely tonight. I’ll open the doors to the balcony.”

Panic seized Sylvain as the man began walking toward the doors. The balcony was completely open, with nowhere fitting enough to hide behind. The only place he could hope for cover was beneath the walkway itself. With a noiseless curse, he dashed as quietly as he could for the railing, leaping over the side to lower himself down. He dropped his head below the bottom with few precious moments to spare, fingers squeezing onto the balcony’s edge as the retainer pushed open the doors. He counted his heartbeats, praying to any god above that he would not see his fingers, trembling from strain of suspending his body above the precarious fall beneath him. His legs dangled, and he forced himself to breathe slowly out through his nose to keep from huffing with exertion. 

With the doors fully pushed open, the man gave an appreciative inhale. “Now that the weather’s warming up, you don’t have to work in these stuffy rooms any longer. You should open the windows more!” He turned to face the king, who was swirling his tea about in his cup.

“If I feel like it.”

Sylvain tightened his grip, willing his heart to stop hammering in his chest. They hadn’t seen him, and were none the wiser of his presence. He could breathe easy on that front. However, he was unsure how long he could hold himself up like this. Exchanging one problem for another was hardly a sound way to go about this mission, and he kicked himself mentally for not preparing an adequate escape should something like this happen. Though, this was really the only feasible method of avoiding detection. Scaling back up the side of the castle would take much too long, not to mention make unnecessary noise. Pressing himself up against the wall and squeezing into the shadows was idiotic and risky. It would only take a moment's scrutiny to locate him. This was, unfortunately, the best he had. Sylvain pinched his lips together and tried not to focus on how his fingers were burning from strain already.

“Oh! That reminds me— the spring festival is coming up, isn’t it? Will you be attending, Your Majesty?”

“Depends on if it interests me.”

“I heard that the Mystic Songstress will be performing on the third day. You liked her music last year, didn’t you?”

“She was impressive. If she’s there, I might go.”

“Fantastic!” He clapped his hands in excitement, and with a sheepish tilt of his head, said, “I’ve already bought tickets.”

“I haven’t said I’d go yet,” the King frowned. His retainer gawked.

“But you must! I hear she has put together an entire story with her songs this year!”

Deciding the topic of their conversation was not of particular importance, Sylvain began surveying his surroundings, searching for a way out of the mess he’d gotten himself into. Off to his right side, there was a small ledge where he could rest his feet. If he could reach it, he could regain his bearings and set himself back on track. 

Taking a deep breath, he began inching his way across the edge of the balcony. It was slow work, one hand after the other at a snail’s pace. Though it was a short distance to move, it would still take some time to reach the ledge. While shuffling along, one of his hands brushed against the rough stone, a quiet shush rippling through the night air.

“Ashe,” interrupted the King, voice serious. “Did you hear that?”

Sylvain froze, blood turning to ice as his heart stuttered to a stop. He didn’t dare breathe. His mind blared the message  _ don’t move don’t move don’t move  _ as he hung there, arms stiff, legs hanging above a deadly drop, cold sweat forming on his temples. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors and had Sylvain gripping tighter to keep from swaying. 

The retainer— Ashe, he presumed, stopped talking to strain his ears for any sound out of place. Sylvain had hoped to finish the job before learning anyone’s names. 

“…I don’t hear anything. What was it you heard?”

A few beats passed where the King kept listening, eyes narrowed, head angled toward the balcony doors.

“I’m not sure. It was probably nothing.” With a weighty sigh, he leaned back in his chair. 

Ashe gave a sympathetic smile. “You must be getting tired. Shall we call it a night, Your Majesty?”

“That might be for the best.” He lifted his teacup to his lips once more and downed the rest of his drink before setting the cup on the tray with a soft clink. His chair scraped the floor as he pushed back to stand, reaching up a hand to rub out an ache in his neck. 

The pair fell into step toward the exit, Ashe immediately launching into recommendations of books he read before sleeping at night. The king groaned something along the lines of ‘this again?’, but Ashe was unbothered by his grouchiness. The study doors clicked shut on Ashe passionately explaining the plot of his most recent read, and Sylvain finally let out the breath he was holding. 

Now that he wasn’t in danger of being heard, he hoisted himself up with a grunt of effort, throwing a leg over the railing and pulling his body over to sit upon the guardrails as he calmed his racing heart. What a stupid mistake he’d made. An error like that could cost him his mission, not to mention his life.

Gritting his teeth, he gathered himself and slipped onto the balcony once more. They had thankfully left the doors open, and he creeped inside without struggle. One of the walls was covered entirely by a glossy bookshelf, filled to the brim with texts, save for one shelf that held a beautifully crafted ceremonial sword encrusted with gemstones and precious metals. A single cerulean chair sat across from the deep brown desk, the upholstery embroidered with a repeating insignia in shining thread. On the wall opposite the bookshelves was an indented area that was curtained off, which Sylvain had never seen opened. If he’d had the time, Sylvain would have thrown open the blue curtains to reveal its secrets, but tonight he had a mission to complete. The sound of the two men talking followed them down the hall, giving Sylvain an accurate marker of their location. He moved toward the exit of the study.

A sharp scent met his nose, somehow warming and cooling him all at once. It had him pausing, head turning to the empty cup on the King’s cluttered desk. The dark remnants of his tea remained, fragrant drops filling the air with the ghost of their aroma. It smelled earthy and green. Astringent yet soothing. 

Almyran pine needles.

Sylvain ripped his gaze away and ignored the smell, instead striding through the length of the study and pressing an ear to the door. He needed to kill the King tonight. He could not let his resolve crack.

The murmurs of conversation continued, now further down the hall. Feather soft, Sylvain inched the door open to peer after them just in time to see the two turn a corner, the King’s wings and hair trailing behind him in a regal wave. The royal blue carpet ran the length of the hallway, illuminated by the occasional sconce. Mahogany doors to rooms unseen lined the cream-colored walls, interspersed with oil paintings of historic battles and occasional still lifes framed in glittering gold. 

Stepping out into the corridor, Sylvain made quick work of crossing the hall to follow the pair, taking excruciating care to silence his footfalls. Another blunder now would not be so easily averted. Lucky for him, Ashe was still excitedly talking about books, the King resigned to listening. He chattered and gestured animatedly, eyes sparkling in excitement as he earnestly attempted to convince the King to read a new favorite of his. Sylvain trailed them through the maze of halls, keeping his distance, but it was too quiet not to hear when Ashe finally wore the King down enough for him to acquiesce ‘Ugh, whatever, I’ll read it.’

Ashe was overjoyed, stopping just short of jumping up and down in glee. He promised to bring the novel to him tomorrow and then buzzed about how excited he was to talk about it with him. 

At a branching hall, the pair separated for the night, Ashe wishing him a good night’s rest, the King simply responding with ‘likewise’. With a small wave and a smile, his retainer continued down the hall. The king watched him go for a moment before taking the perpendicular path, and without his peppy friend at his side, he looked much more menacing with his sharp wings and long onyx hair. 

The decor of the corridor shifted as Sylvain shadowed him, fewer paintings lining the walls, replaced with radiant swords encased in glass, each one a marvelous work of craftsmanship, polished metal glinting in the warm light. Long velvet curtains hid shadowed alcoves, cords of silver rope hanging unused beside them. The molding following the shape of the walls grew sharper, the curling florals of before giving way to dangerous claw-like embellishments. Looming at the end of the hallway was a grand set of paneled double doors, framed on either side by a shining suit of armor, their cool blue metal trimmed with flecks of gold, chest plates boasting of a glittering sapphire each. Heavy, intricately embroidered midnight curtains spanned floor to ceiling beside them, tied back to clawed hooks of gleaming silver. The king approached the doors, posture just as stiff and tense as it had been the entire day, as though he was always on edge. He raised a hand and pushed against one of the doors, opening it with a gentle whoosh of air. He slipped inside, and the doors shut with a thud behind him. 

Sylvain crept forward, checking his pockets for his weapons. A dagger sharpened to perfection sat snug in its strap around his thigh, a smokescreen potion at home in his pouch in case he needed to make a quick getaway. The plush carpet swallowed his footsteps as he approached to press an ear to the doors.

From within, he heard shuffling and soft footsteps. The sound of hair being brushed out. The clatter of something hard being set down on a table. More footsteps, and the sound of fabric rustling, then the pull of sheets as the light glinting underneath the door flickered out. He must have crawled into bed for the evening. Sylvain leaned back and settled against the wall behind a pedestal holding a vase of artfully arranged branches. Anyone passing by would have a hard time noticing him.

Two hours of silence engulfed the darkened hallway before Sylvain was certain the King must be asleep. He had heard no noise from within since the lights were blown out, leading him to believe he was just as stony in his sleep as he was awake. He stood, stretching his joints to avoid them cracking at the least opportune time. His hand found the hilt of his dagger, warm with body heat, and gripped it hard. With a thick swallow and a heavy exhale, Sylvain hardened his resolve. He had to succeed, or die. He pushed all other thoughts to the back of his mind and placed his hand on the doorknob to the King’s chambers.

It opened slowly, without a creak, and Sylvain slid inside with a silent breath. The dark made it hard to make out much detail, but his eyes had little trouble adjusting to the dimness. A balcony overlooked the distant mountains separating Albinea from Faerghus, the lights of the city blinking up at the shimmering sky despite the late hour. The moon-glow threw a gentle gleam upon the parquet floors, shining in the mirror of a vanity pushed against the right wall. A set of intricate trinkets caught light upon their metallic surfaces, sitting atop a low bookcase filled with boxes and papers. A pair of nightstands with glistening handles on their drawers bordered each side of the grand bed, stacked with soft pillows and inviting blankets. It could fit three people comfortably and still have room to spare. He walked toward the bed, readying the dagger in his right hand. The form of the King, sleeping soundly amongst the bedding, was noticeably absent.

Sylvain froze, feeling his heart drop for the second time that night. 

He whirled around, bringing up his blade, but fell just short of quick enough as a shadowed blur descended upon him, ripping free the dagger and shoving him backward. He fell with a gasp onto the plush covers of the bed, the King moving like lightning to secure his wrists above his head and press Sylvain’s dagger to his neck. 

Eyes wide, pulse hammering in his throat, Sylvain stared up at the face of the King looming over him, long hair slipping over his shoulders to drape onto his heaving chest. With narrowed eyes illuminated partially by the moonlight, one knee supporting him on the bed, he growled, “Move, and I’ll slit your throat.” His wings were extended out, nearly encompassing Sylvain’s view as though the starless midnight sky itself stretched above them.

It seemed that even with all his careful preparation, Sylvain had messed up. The years he’d spent training, practicing, and studying, all wasted. He had waited so diligently, following after the king and anticipating the perfect moment. To have exerted so much effort and for it all to be for naught? 

The calm clarity that washed over him was nearly startling, but filled him with enough gall to grin and snark, “Wow, take me to dinner first, yeah?” 

He had worked too hard for it all to fall apart now. Sylvain could stall, could work his signature charm, or perhaps lure the King into a false sense of security. His dagger may have been compromised, but he had a sharp mind, too. If he could buy himself some time, he could magic a way out of this predicament somehow. Or, at least, he could be an asshole in his final moments.

The King didn’t humor him with a response aside from pressing the blade firmer against his throat. He fixed Sylvain with an appraising look, grip tightening on his wrists.

“I thought something felt off today. I feel better knowing I wasn’t just going insane. You’ve been watching me since the audience, haven’t you?”

At his inquiry, Sylvain looked away, grin fading into a cheeky smile. He would shrug if his arms weren’t being restrained. “It’s possible.” 

Inwardly, he grit his teeth. He’d thought he’d perfected his ability to hide his presence. Or had he simply underestimated the King? To pinpoint the exact moment he’d begun observing him, he must be far more skilled and alert than Sylvain had originally believed. 

The king tilted his head, and more locks of his dark hair spilled over his pointed ear onto the bedspread beside Sylvain’s collar. His silken strands gleamed blue with light, carrying with them the scent of a familiar spice Sylvain couldn’t name. This close, he could feel the heat of his body bearing down on him, and for a brief moment, he was lost in his heady aroma. “You’re not exactly in a position to be playing games.”

“I’m sure in position for something.” It was almost too easy. Sylvain was spring-loaded, all crystal smiles bewitched in poison, warm honey eyes cloaking a gelid tactician. He had a tongue like a deadfall trap. Though really, it wasn’t the worst position to be in, sandwiched between a handsome man and his inviting, lavish bed. Under different circumstances, it would be rather agreeable. It truly was unfortunate that fate had pitted them against each other like this.

Something like distaste crossed the king's face, a delicate wrinkle to his nose and a downward curl to his lips. He looked like he wanted to scoff, but held back to level a warning glare at him, his wings curling down further to trap him on either side. Despite himself, Sylvain’s cocky smile grew strained. His bones itched to escape, to tear through the thin webbing of his wings and face the stars unhindered. A vice gripped his lungs, and for a moment he focused solely on evening his stuttering breath. He forced himself to look up and meet the dark eyes of his target. His pupils were vertical slits, trained unflinching on him alone, and Sylvain gazed back as he fought the feeling of suffocation squeezing his chest.

“What are you after?” Asked the King, venom permeating his words like a snake bite.

Relying on autopilot, Sylvain winked and said, “Isn’t it obvious? You, gorgeous.”

“Stop that.” He ordered. A mutinous irritation rolled off him in waves, thickening the air into a paste. Just a bit more now. Sylvain was pushing all the right buttons, nudging him toward losing his temper just enough to be unstable. “It’s disgusting.”

“I can’t just let a beauty like you go unappreciated, can I? Tell you what, a starlit dinner, just you and me, my tre—“

“This is a waste of time.” 

Time slowed to a screeching halt as Sylvain felt the King's arms begin to flex, the roping muscles coiled in preparation to shove the blade against his neck and drag his blood free. He felt each aching moment burning behind his eyes like an eternity stretched threadbare. His mind zeroed in on the sharp turn of his cheekbones, the annoyed crease that valleyed his brows, the glint of finality in his frigid eyes, and found certain death lurking behind each one. Then, heaven-sent, Sylvain felt the way he leaned as he shifted his balance, preparing to apply devastating pressure to the arteries strung tight in his throat.

In a blinding flash of strength and speed, Sylvain whipped up his elbow to crack against the side of the King’s skull, knocking him sideways as a grunt of pain pushed past his lips. The dagger slid away so he could steady himself, and Sylvain took the opening to knee him in the side and yank his wrists free. He rolled off the bad and sprang back onto his feet, digging in his pocket to grip at the stashed smokescreen potion. The King stumbled upright, whipping around to brandish the dagger with dangerous expertise, but Sylvain threw down the glass bottle to shatter on the wooden floor before he could fully get his bearings. 

An immediate plume of thick smoke ballooned outward, obscuring Sylvain enough for him to turn and make a break for the door. He tore it open and dove out into the hallway to sprint down the corridor, quieting his footfalls as best he could at maximum speed. The sound of massive wings beating hard stirred the troubled evening air, and Sylvain rounded the corner hoping he was quick enough to lose him. 

At the apex of his turn, he nearly collided with a pair of guards on their nightly patrol, attracted by the commotion. In the altercation, Sylvain had forgotten to account for the times of patrols. His stomach dropped at the sight of them, and he shoved past before they could move to restrain him. Now that he’d sufficiently blown his cover, he thundered down the hallway as the guards gave chase, shouting for him to stop. They brandished a dangerous lance each, but the weight of their weapons made them slow pursuers. However, if he kept running through the castle, there were sure to be more guards that would see him. Sylvain sprinted hard, dashing back the way he’d come from earlier, and pushing through the door to the king’s study once more. The lights had been put out, the tea cleared from the desk, and the balcony doors shut for the night. In a flash, he was across the room, throwing open the balcony doors. The curtains billowed in the wind, moonlight cutting through the darkness. 

With a silent prayer, Sylvain turned and threw himself beneath the heavy desk, moving the chair to hide his body. Not a moment later, the guards crashed into the study, lances at the ready. Upon seeing the balcony doors open, rattling in the breeze, they cursed and jogged over, breezing past where he was concealed. 

“It seems he escaped…” One guard muttered darkly, clenching his fists. 

“Go and check on the King,” Ordered the other, “And raise the alarm after you’ve ensured His Majesty’s safety. I’ll stay here in case he shows himself again.”

With a dutiful nod, the guard turned and exited the room. Sylvain peered at the remaining guard who stepped out onto the balcony, checking around for anyone hanging from the walls or walkway. He gripped his lance and leaned over the railing as he surveyed the sprawling castle gardens below. 

Sylvain had hoped that they would both embark on the goose chase he’d set up, but as he watched, another idea hatched inside his head. Cat-like, he crept out from beneath the desk and snuck forward, holding his breath. The guard’s back was still turned, and once he was close enough, Sylvain kicked his lance away and threw an arm around his neck in a chokehold, dragging him back into the room out of the moonlight. The guard sputtered and flailed, hands coming up to claw at his forearm. His nails dug fruitlessly into the leather vambraces, and Sylvain squeezed a little harder. 

“Easy does it…” Sylvain whispered in his ear as the man struggled, unable to cry out with the pressure exerted on his throat, only making dry strangled grunts. It took several minutes, but soon the man went limp in his arms. His pulse fluttered faintly in his neck, and Sylvain laid the unconscious man down on the floor.

“I’ll be borrowing your uniform,” He grinned, fingers already working at the clasps of his plate armor. “Thanks in advance.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Hold still now, this will only take a moment,” smiled Mercedes, the head physician, as she hovered a hand glowing with healing magic near Felix’s brow. A large, brilliant purple bruise was throbbing unhappily just beside his left temple from where he was elbowed in the face by that weird pervert trying to kill him last night. He tilted his head to make it easier for her and felt the cooling touch of her magic ease the pain and swelling. 

Morning light streamed through the tall arched windows of the castle infirmary, gauzy white curtains glowing in the bright sun. The scent of lemon and clean linens intertwined in gentle unity. Rows of neat empty beds lined the walls, separated by folding screens. A set of dark brown cabinets sat against a far wall, stocked with bandages and antiseptic. The soft rustle of the crisp sheets as Felix shifted on the bed accompanied the warm humming of Mercedes, who touched lightly at the spot on his head, now healed. Her manicured fingers ghosted over the once tender skin, and she smiled with satisfaction, leaning back a breath from where she was hovering over him.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Your Majesty. Things could have been so much worse! I hope you’ll consider upping the security here in the castle to keep yourself safe.” She gave his cheek an affectionate pat, which he jerked away from with a huff of annoyance.

“I can take care of myself,” he asserted, glaring at a spot on the dark wood floor. Mercedes gave him a knowing smile, one that made Felix feel like all his secrets were laid bare before her. She had a way of looking at him like she understood everything about him, her soft blue eyes shining with empathy.

“I don’t doubt it,” she began, taking a seat at the chair by the bedside. “But you can never be too careful!” She turned her face to the window beside them, staring up at the endless clear sky as she folded her dainty hands in her lap. The light gleamed upon her flaxen hair. “I know that you have a hard time relying on others to help you. You want to take everything on alone because you think people will see you as weak otherwise.”

She looked back at him with a motherly gaze. “But know that that is not the case at all. We would all be more than happy to lend a hand should you need it, and no one would look down on you for asking. Everyone relies on you so much. Let us give back a little.”

With a scoff, Felix got to his feet, a twist of distaste upon his lips. “I didn’t come here to be lectured.”

Despite his cold response, Mercedes kept looking at him with that look in her eyes, a serene smile gracing her lips. “Of course not. My apologies, Your Majesty.” She got to her feet as well, brushing off her skirt. “I shall walk you out, then.”

“I can see myself out. Thank you for the treatment,” Felix quipped, his already taut nerves coiling further as he turned and stalked toward the exit of the infirmary. 

“Have a good day,” she called after him, waving at his retreating form. He stiffened, simmering with irritation, but said nothing else as he pushed open the doors and walked out, letting them fall closed behind him with a thud. 

Out of sight, he brought a hand up to rub at his growing headache and sighed, turning down the hallway to begin another workday. All the excitement of the previous night had bitten a sizable chunk out of his sleep, but the day was ever unyielding, and he was up with the sun as per usual. No doubt there was a brand new mountain of work for him to take care of. 

At breakfast, he’d refrained from eating and opted instead for the strongest tea available. He sat at a table next to an open window, the cool early breeze dancing across his face and toying with loose strands of hair as he swirled his tea about in its cup, letting the warm steam waft up towards his face. Outside, birds swooped from tree to tree singing to each other in twittering peeps, and Felix did his best to let go of the tension building within him. 

Last night, he had been careless. He thought he’d had everything under control, but that man had caught him by surprise. He blinked slowly at the black tea, gleaming amber in the sun. 

When Glenn was still around, the one thing he’d hammered into his head was to never overestimate himself. It was why he’d never let Felix win a match when they sparred. He’d wanted to keep him from growing cocky. To falsely believe oneself untouchable was to become most vulnerable. It was a simple lesson, and yet Felix had tossed it away in a haze of self-confidence. 

He felt shame burn in his veins and grimaced at his reflection swimming on the surface of the tea. Were Glenn still here, he’d be disappointed in him. It was easy to picture the sour look on his face, the way he’d shake his head in disbelief at Felix’s actions, how he’d say,  _ I thought you were better than this _ .

Setting his teacup down with a clink, he moved to rub at his eyes, still burning with tiredness. He felt like a chastised child. Now, even the thought of finishing his tea turned his stomach. The dull ache throbbing in his skull only grew more pronounced as he pushed his cup away and stood, turning to walk away from the quiet alcove he’d tucked himself into earlier. It was already shaping up to be a long day.

As he strode through the castle halls toward his study, he thought back to the night before. That man had most certainly been human. Felix had seen it in his blunt teeth and rounded ears, the circular pupils of his eyes. He curled a finger before his chin, an arm crossed over his chest as he thought. What did a human stand to gain from killing him? As far as he knew, the only humans who came to Albinea were travelers, tourists, and merchants. The nearest human territories were the Almyran Alliance to the west, Brigid across the ocean to the south, and Faerghus past the snowy mountains to the east. From what he knew, there were no tensions between them, and he regularly traded goods with both the Almyran Alliance and Brigid. Faerghus, though, was the odd one out. Albinea didn’t have much of a relationship at all with the holy kingdom. The mountains were too imposing for regular correspondence, and the rift between them had kept them separate for as long as he had known. 

Five years ago, though, he had received word of a terrible attack upon their capital that left them in dire need of aid. Felix was still a new ruler at the time, with hardly a year spent upon the throne, and in an effort to cultivate friendly relations, had sent several caravans of reconstruction materials and food to their capital. Two weeks later, the caravans returned, having been rejected at the border. 

Felix had tried not to take it like a slap in the face. For word of the tragedy to breach the divide, they had to be in terrible need. Why had they turned his aid away? At the time, he thought that perhaps he had overstepped his boundaries and insulted them somehow. He knew nothing of the customs or culture of Faerghus, so maybe receiving such help had brought them shame. Now, though, he was starting to believe there was more to the story.

A long-forgotten memory stirred in his mind. If he remembered correctly, a few months after the caravans had returned, he had heard a bit of gossip that had turned his head. It was reported to him that there had been talk from the Brigid merchants that had heard from Duscur fishermen that had traded with Faerghus farmers that the church had made a call for Felix’s head. He had written it off as a baseless rumor at the time and was too preoccupied with running his kingdom to organize and fund an investigation. No one had ever been arrested for trying to assassinate him anyway, so there was never any reason to believe the claims in the first place. Perhaps it had more truth to it than he originally thought. If so, it was possible the man from last night and these rumors were related. 

Pondering so deeply as he walked, he almost missed a familiar voice calling out to him.

“Your Majesty!” cried Ashe, jogging towards him with worried eyes, arms full of parchment. Felix turned and waited for him to catch up, and soon he came to a breathless stop before him. 

“I’ve finally found you! I thought it strange that you weren’t at the training grounds this morning, and then I was told you’d been injured by an intruder last night! Oh, please forgive me for my negligence, I never should have let such a thing happen, I should have done more to prevent this, I should have been there to protect you, I—“

“Ashe,” Felix interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. “I’m fine.” His retainer looked to be near tears, genuine remorse wrinkling his brows. 

A beat of silence passed between them, and Ashe looked to the marble floor, his gray hair slipping before his eyes. With a tiny sniff, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Felix sighed through his nose and brought up a hand to card through his hair. “It wasn’t your fault. If you mope about blaming yourself for this, I’m going to get irritated.” 

His words surprised a laugh from Ashe, who looked back up with a weak, watery smile. “That’s just like you.”

With a hmph, Felix turned back around and began walking towards his study once more. “What’s on my schedule for today?” he asked as Ashe fell into step beside him, scrubbing at his eyes. He flicked through his stack of papers and pulled out one covered in neat, detailed notes. Once he cleared his throat, he began relaying his responsibilities for the day. 

The pair moved quickly through the halls, Ashe informing him of the progress of various repairs about the city, and of the need to modernize the light post system in the older sections. 

As they turned a corner, Felix caught sight of a messenger pacing before the doors to his study. 

“Urgent report, Your Majesty!” she said with a bow as Felix approached. Upon straightening, she continued. “A suspicious human man was apprehended at the site of the Remire Village ruins.”

Felix narrowed his eyes. Remire was the last place his father and brother had been seen. It was where countless people went missing in a single night nearly six years ago, the entire village razed to the ground. All that was left was the charred earth and smoldering ruins. There had been no clues or bodies to bury, and it had remained a tragic mystery to all who knew of it. Felix had been obsessed with discovering the truth back then, and had ordered investigators to comb the entire site top to bottom, but to no avail. The broken land remained tight-lipped, and he’d simply had to accept that he would never see his family again.

For someone to be found prowling the grounds, now? After all this time? What were they after? Was it somehow connected to the attempt on his life last night? Or were they two unrelated events? 

The messenger continued, “He is currently in a holding cell awaiting your judgment.”

“Thank you,” Felix nodded once she finished. “You are dismissed.” She bowed once more and hurried off. 

With a sigh, Felix rubbed at his eyes again. He ached to go now to question the man, but if he did, he’d be late for a meeting in half an hour, which would push back when he would hold council, and that would interfere with the foreign diplomat coming to discuss trade agreements. Not to mention the numerous stacks of paperwork he had to slog through before the day’s end. He would have to wait until tonight to sate his curiosity.

* * *

Sylvain blended seamlessly into the background as he walked unhindered through the castle halls, his human features hidden by the helmet he’d stolen last night. He held a gleaming halberd straight and tall as he’d seen the other guards do, and exuded the confidence of someone who was supposed to be there. No one gave him a second glance.

Even though the previous night had been disastrous, it had set him up to put a better plan into action. After he’d bound and gagged the guard he’d stripped, he’d stashed him in a dusty broom closet where hopefully no one would find him for a long while. Then, he’d taken some time to run about with other patrols under the guise of searching for the intruder. With all the chaos, he had had ample time to mentally map out the halls and learn locations he would have had a hard time discerning from outside. Unfortunately, he’d been unable to go back and kill the king, as a copious amount of knights had been dispatched and placed about his doors for the remainder of the night. Sylvain had to wait until the commotion died down before he could even think of striking again. 

In the aftermath, the guards had doubled down on their patrols and increased the number of guards around the castle. Sylvain couldn’t help but grin at how counterproductive it was. With his disguise, he could freely wander the castle and learn the patrol routes more thoroughly. No one would question his presence. He’d even been able to flirt some breakfast out of a young, plain-looking maid who told him her name was Griselda, with wide innocent eyes and twin braids. She appeared as though she had never received any kind of romantic attention in her life. When he’d called her a ‘quiet kind of beautiful’, she’d flushed a bright pink and looked away as she brought up her hands to cup her cheeks, and Sylvain knew that he’d effectively wrapped her around his little finger. He felt kind of bad about manipulating her, especially after he’d promised to find her again before excusing himself to ‘protect the castle’. She’d looked at him with such a shy, hopeful gaze as he waltzed off with an armful of food and no intention of keeping any kind of promise. Not his most upstanding moment, but he was okay with being a scumbag given his current circumstances. 

He wished he had more time to develop a full-proof plan, but someone would eventually find the man he’d locked in a closet, and the fact that Sylvain infiltrated the guard would become known. He needed to act quickly, otherwise, the guards could be given the order to remove their helmets and he would lose the leverage that allowed him to hide in plain sight. However, the King was constantly either moving from one place to another or surrounded by people. He hardly went anywhere without his retainer, Ashe, but should push come to shove, Sylvain figured he could take him down in a fight. He didn’t look like a tough opponent. Although, he hoped he could find some other way to get him out of the picture for a while. He’d spent enough time with Ingrid to know Ashe was the starry-eyed, chivalrous sort who would throw down his life in the name of duty, and Sylvain didn’t want to kill him. Maybe a diversion of some sort would draw him away.

Piecing together a hasty plan, Sylvain took a sharp turn down the ornate halls toward Ashe’s room. It didn’t take long to find, as he’d basically run around the entire castle at this point, checking every room. It was much simpler than the hall leading up to the king’s chambers but still fit for a lavish castle. The corridor looked to house several empty bedrooms likely used for hosting guests, and Ashe’s was the first on the left. 

Sylvain pushed the simple paneled door open and slipped inside, letting it fall shut behind him with a creak and a soft click. The first thing he noticed was the smell of gentle mint, soothing in the light air. There was a desk shoved against the right wall covered in parchment paper and ink stains, a quill askew on the side. Each paper was messy with black, incomprehensible scribbles, and the trash bin in the corner was overflowing with crumpled notes. A tall, arched window threw squares of brilliant light upon the floor, cutting through the shadows beside a queen-sized bed, hastily made with white sheets and a deep blue comforter. A green knit throw blanket drooped off the edge and threatened to brush the ground near where a large bookcase sagged under the weight of countless books. Their intricate, colorful spines were well-loved, and each shelf was carefully dusted and ordered. A dresser stood opposite the bed, an occasional bit of clothing peeking out from the drawers. On top were even more books, alongside a hairbrush and a few small boxes. There was a round blue rug covering part of the floor, which quieted Sylvain’s footfalls as he moved through the space.

He tugged open the top drawer of the dresser, revealing neat stacks of socks and undergarments, which he dumped onto the hardwood floor. If he could make it look like someone had trashed Ashe’s room, it would provide enough of a distraction to keep the man busy for a while, and might even draw the attention of some guards. As Sylvain busied himself throwing clothes about, an envelope stuffed in the very back of the drawer caught his eye. He picked it up, and through the paper, he could feel the hard contents within. He furrowed his brows and stashed it in his pocket to look through later. He wasn’t sure how long he had before Ashe returned, so any juicy secrets would have to wait until later. He tugged open the next drawer and tossed the shirts upon the ground.

Sylvain made quick work of rummaging through his things. He’d found a cat-shaped coin pouch full of gold, which he spilled out along the carpet so it wouldn’t clatter, and then he threw a stack of parchment across the room. The papers scattered and laid overtop the clothes strewn about, and for good measure, Sylvain overturned the chair at the desk. He took a step back to observe his handiwork and deemed the place sufficiently trashed for his purposes. It hadn’t taken too long, fifteen minutes at most, and the place was effectively a wreck. Nodding to himself, he turned and pressed an ear against the door, listening for people nearby. Once he deemed it safe to leave without being spotted, he slipped out and hurried down the hall.

It was only a few minutes before he found a guard on patrol, and he urgently flagged him down.

“What is it?” asked the man, his grip on his halberd tightening, lips pressed into a thin line. 

Sylvain was careful to not let his teeth show when he responded, “Do you know where the King’s retainer is?”

The man frowned and replied, “General Ashe is with His Majesty at the festival committee’s meeting in the east wing.”

“Bring him at once,” Sylvain ordered, voice grave, trying very hard not to double-take at the ‘general’ honorific. “His room has been found trashed.”

Sylvain could see the muscles in his face grow taut, and he asked, “By whom?”

Sylvain, without thinking, said, “We aren’t sure, but we suspect the kitchen maid, Griselda.” If he could shift suspicion away from himself and subsequently make the situation seem like it would bring no harm to the king, he could more easily manipulate the guards.

He didn’t seem to know who that was. “Why would a kitchen maid—“

“Saints, what is this, twenty questions? _Go get General Ashe_.”

At his commanding tone, the guard straightened and nodded, turning and rushing back down the hallway. At his retreating form, Sylvain let out a breath of relief and grinned. He couldn’t go himself to fetch Ashe— the King might recognize his voice. He was lucky the castle was full of subservient meatheads. They made for excellent pawns. 

He waited until he could no longer hear his clattering footsteps before jogging after him, telling any other guards out on patrol to report to Ashe’s room. Soon, the hallway of bedrooms would become congested with clueless guards, and it was only a matter of time before they realized something was up, but Sylvain needed as few guards as possible around the king. If he could get him alone, that would be ideal, but Sylvain wasn’t sure how plausible that would be. From what he could tell from watching him yesterday, the King’s attention was in high demand. He was constantly talking and negotiating, with hardly any breathing room between each meeting. Sylvain did not envy his workload. It seemed hellish. And yet, here he was, trying to become the king of his own land. He would likely see a similar schedule if he took the throne. 

At the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, Sylvain slid into a side hall and hid behind a decorative suit of armor.

“Wait, what exactly is going on?” asked Ashe as he hurried down the hall, the guard from earlier at his side.

“The kitchen maid, Griselda, is suspected of trashing your room.”

“What for?” He asked, brows furrowed in confusion.

“We don’t know.”

“Where is Griselda?”

“She has been sent for.”

The pair rushed past Sylvain, who bit his bottom lip. He had forgotten to take into account that Ashe might actually be smart. Well, no going back now. It would still take a bit to connect the dots, he hoped. Once the hall was clear, Sylvain ventured back out and dashed the rest of the way to the east wing of the castle. 

The meeting room was one of the smaller ones, reserved for less important and smaller gatherings. Still, it boasted a gleaming set of mahogany doors with polished brass knobs, the entryway shouldered by a pair of plants in decorative gold-trimmed pots. Two guards stood at the ready before the doors, both wielding shining steel lances. They glanced his way as he approached, and Sylvain took a deep breath to steady himself.

“General Ashe urgently requests your presence,” Sylvain lied. “I have been sent to take your place.” 

The two guards exchanged glances as Sylvain held his breath.

“Is the situation worse than originally believed?” one asked, a frown on his lips.

“We currently have limited knowledge,” He replied, hoping his silver tongue would work its magic. “We must move quickly or else things could get out of hand. General Ashe asked for you two specifically because he thinks you’re best suited for the task. You mustn’t let him down.”

Sylvain watched them both wither at the thought of disappointing Ashe. The other guard looked at him apprehensively and asked, “You’ll be fine here?”

“Of course,” Sylvain confirmed. “You must hurry.”

The pair nodded and set off down the hall, their boots clanking with each step. Sylvain took up post at the door and started running numbers in his head.

It had taken about seven minutes for him to run here from Ashe’s room. He had passed Ashe three minutes before, so there were still four minutes until he even reached his room. If he was lucky, it would take ten minutes to sort through the confusion, and if the goddess smiled upon him, they would begin a search for the kitchen maid, which could last between fifteen to forty-five minutes. If Ashe became suspicious and returned, at worst Sylvain had twenty-one minutes, and at best he had up to an hour. Adrenaline was thudding restlessly in his veins, and he breathed out slowly through his nose.

From inside the meeting room, he could hear voices. It seemed to be a presentation of some sort, but he was having trouble hearing through the heavy doors. He supposed that was for the best, as no one inside would have heard him speaking out here. However, it also posed a significant problem, as he couldn’t tell how many people were inside. Sylvain inched closer to press an ear against the wood, straining to hear. Someone was speaking about…light posts? How banal. 

Sylvain thought back to when he’d glanced through every room he came across. If he remembered correctly, this room had tall windows on the far side, casting daylight upon the long, deep brown polished table surrounded by ornately carved wooden chairs with royal blue cushions. A case stood near the end of the table, crisscrossing racks holding several bottles of wine. The room looked like it could hold up to twenty people before it became crowded, so he could assume there weren’t more than that. 

Sylvain could leave his current position and scale the castle to peak inside the windows, but that would take time. Plus, the King was more alert than Sylvain originally thought, and might pick up on the fact he was being watched. If he entered the room, it would attract everyone’s attention, and while it may not immediately raise suspicion due to his disguise, it was still unwise because he wasn’t certain who was inside. He could wait and see if anyone exited and take the brief moment to survey the room, but that left much up to chance. However, it was the least likely to incur penalties should things go wrong. 

He decided to wait and see how things played out for fifteen minutes. Then, he’d have at least five to act. If things went south, he planned his escape route through the castle’s back entrance. 

Sylvain tightened his grip on his halberd. If he failed again, it was also possible he’d be executed on the spot. Was there anything he could say before a blade severed his head that would net him at least a few extra hours? He combed his thoughts for some life-saving sentence.

_ Your Majesty, you have a juicy ass. _ That could postpone his execution so that he could be publicly flogged for sexually harassing the King. Directly after, he would be guillotined. So, maybe not that one.

_ Kill me, and two more will take my place. _ That could work, if Sylvain was okay with being tortured for information about who else was involved in the plot to kill the king. He wasn’t. Also, he would absolutely still be killed.

_ I know everything _ . Ambiguous enough to be about anything, and hopefully intriguing enough to net him a gentler beating so he could still be questioned. It relied on there being something to know everything about, but Sylvain had had enough experience with political leaders to assume something was being swept under the rug somewhere. It might only grant him a few extra moments, but it was better than nothing.

The minutes dripped by like a leaky faucet. Each passing second he grew more jittery. He had counted four different voices speaking in the meeting room, so including the king, there were at least five people. He had six minutes until he would grit his teeth and enter, taking any complications in stride. It might result in more than just the king’s life being taken if anyone tried to defend him, but hopefully, he could finish the job before anything escalated. The king would try to fight back, but Sylvain was at his best with the range of the halberd. He had plenty of experience slaying bandits, and before Ingrid had become a nun, she’d made him spar with her every time she visited. He would still need to be cautious, though. Escape wouldn’t be as easy as before if he failed again. 

With two minutes remaining, Sylvain felt his palms growing sweaty in his gauntlets. He focused on breathing, trying to clear his mind of doubts before he took action. There was no room for hesitation. He swallowed and turned his gaze upon the view through the window opposite him to steady himself. He could see out into the courtyard below, where a hexagonal fountain boasted a white marble statue of a winged figure pouring water from a pitcher. The castle bordered the courtyard on all sides, the bottom level something of a plein-air hall with artfully carved stone pillars along the walkway. A white brick path wound about the fountain, dotted by the occasional iron bench. Flower beds were beginning to show signs of life.

While Sylvain was in the middle of counting down from thirty seconds, he heard the muffled voice of the king say, “Let’s take a ten-minute break and reconvene afterward.” Then, the sound of murmured agreement and chairs scraping against the floor. His heart began pumping, blood rushing in his ears.

The doors to the meeting room opened, and out walked the Demon King himself, rubbing roughly at his temple, eyes closed as he sighed heavily. He was completely off guard, seemingly preoccupied with a splitting headache. 

In the light, this close up, Sylvain was struck by just how beautiful he was, sharp features and velvet lips, long lashes fanned delicately above his cheeks. His dark, glossy hair cascaded down his back, smooth strands trailing after him with each echoing step. Last night, he had been mostly bluffing with the compliments, but now, with the sun on his face, his eyes parting to reveal a sliver of sunset, Sylvain couldn’t help but fall a little bit in love.

But Sylvain wouldn’t get another chance like this, so he swallowed and readied his halberd.

“FELIX!” Came a desperate, breathless cry, freezing him in place. Ashe stood at the end of the hall, chest heaving, nocking an arrow on his silver bow and pulling it back, aiming straight for Sylvain. At Ashe’s exclamation, the King whipped around, lips parted in surprise, a hand reaching to unsheathe the sword strapped to his waist. Upon seeing Sylvain prepared to strike, his eyes narrowed in a glare, and he slashed his blade in a dangerous arc that had Sylvain leaping backward. Drawing his wings in tight, he stepped after Sylvain and aimed a stab for the gap in his armor, but Sylvain sidestepped and circled around, putting the king between him and Ashe to protect himself from getting shot. Sylvain aimed his halberd and lunged, but the king was blindingly quick. He dodged right, giving Ashe enough room to loose an arrow. Sylvain had no choice but to drop to avoid it, and it went whizzing overhead. 

Before he could spring to his feet, the King aimed a heavy kick to his chest, sending him flying onto his back. Even through his armor, it knocked the wind out of him. He gasped for air, trying to push himself back up, but the king stomped a foot against his chest to hold him down. He leveled his blade to Sylvain’s throat, eyes fiery with malice.

Dozens of footsteps came thundering down the hall as Ashe ordered Sylvain to be restrained. The king stepped away and Sylvain was quickly surrounded by guards who kicked him onto his back and pulled his arms behind him.

_ Well _ , Sylvain thought,  _ that went to shit much quicker than expected _ . 

The guards yanked him to his feet as Ashe asked, “Your orders, Your Majesty?” 

The king sheathed his sword, a frown pulling at his lips. “Imprison him. I have questions for him later.” 

“It shall be done,” Ashe bowed, and he gestured for the guards to carry out the demand. With his arms pulled back so tightly and at least eight lances pointed at him, Sylvain had no choice but to comply as they turned and marched him down the hall toward the dungeons. As he went, he locked eyes with the guard he had stolen the uniform from and stashed in the broom closet earlier. 

_ Ah, I forgot to take the possibility of you waking up into account when making my calculations,  _ Sylvain realized. 

As Sylvain was dragged off, he heard Ashe worrying over the king, asking if he was alright.

The king. Felix. 

Sylvain couldn’t help but test the shape of his name.

_ Felix, you’re stunning. Felix, you’re beautiful. Felix, you’ll regret not killing me. _

* * *

The journey to the dungeons was a quick one. Eager to be rid of him, the guards threw him into a dirty, damp cell and slammed the barred door shut with a deafening clang. With a groan, he sat up, stretching out his arms. They had been held back painfully tight.

“Consider yourself lucky,” sneered the guard Sylvain had choked out. “Were it up to me, I’d have your guts spilled in the town square.”

“Oooh, you wanna rearrange my guts, daddy?” Sylvain drawled, tilting his head at the man, who snarled and used the butt of his lance to hit him in the head. It didn’t hurt, as Sylvain was still wearing the helmet, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey, let’s come up with safe words before we start hitting each other. Mine’s pineapple, what’s yours?”

“Gods, shut the hell up,” the man spat before deeming Sylvain a waste of time and turning to leave with the other guards.

“That’s not a very good safe word,” Sylvain called after his retreating form. The guard thrust up a rude hand gesture before ascending the stairs to exit the dungeons.

“Ugh, damn it all to hell,” Sylvain complained as he leaned back on his palms. The rough stone floor scraped beneath his gloves, and the sound of scuttling rats met his ears. Truthfully, he considered himself incredibly lucky for not being immediately dismembered. Still, he wasn’t exactly in an ideal situation.

A dungeon-keeper was sitting a ways away at a rickety wood table playing solitaire, having hardly looked up when Sylvain was brought in, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. Torches flickered brightly on the walls, casting an orange glow about the shadowed cells. The black bars of his cage stood sturdy, far enough apart to fit his arms through, but nothing else. In the back of the cell was a pile of musty hay, crawling with mites and littered with rat droppings. Fat arachnids with spindly legs hung from spiderwebs in the corners. The air felt oppressively heavy and smelled of stale water and mildew. 

With low expectations, Sylvain reached out and tested the bars, gripping the door and tugging. It didn’t budge. He stood and tried to fit his head through to get a look at the lock. Failing miserably, he stuck out his forearm and felt along the metal plate, a finger coming to trace the outline of the large keyhole. He glanced at the man playing solitaire but did not see a ring of keys on his belt. Instead, it was hung from an iron hook on the wall, still swaying from when it was used to lock Sylvain up. 

He sighed, drawing blanks on how he could escape. Across from him was another cell, a tiny window near the ceiling letting in a little square of silver light. It fell upon the body of another man, who Sylvain was only now noticing. He had broad shoulders and a muscular build. The sides of his head were shaved, with the rest of his white hair pulled back into a short ponytail. He had a strong, handsome bone structure, face riddled with battle scars, and eyes like the sea. Several moments passed where they simply stared at each other, Sylvain realizing he was human, too.

“Hey there,” Sylvain grinned. Maybe alone, he couldn’t break out, but with a new friend? It was possible. “What are you in for?”

The man sized him up, distrust evident on his face. “I cannot say.”

Sylvain nodded along in understanding. “I get it, I get it. Classified, huh? Me, too.” He lifted the helmet off, revealing his shock of messy red hair and unmistakably human features, watching as recognition flashed in the man’s eyes. “My name’s Sylvain, what’s yours?”

A stretch of silence passed between them as he evaluated Sylvain. 

“…Dedue.”

“Well, Dedue, it looks like we have a lot in common,” Sylvain said, leaning against the bars.

“So it would seem.”

“Quiet over there,” called the man at the table as he shuffled his deck and started a new game. He made a noise of disgust and stomped at a spider crawling near his boot.

Lowering his voice, Sylvain murmured, “What do you say we partner up?” 

“Do you have any bright ideas?” he asked at the same volume.

“Let me get back to you on that one.”

* * *

Sylvain spent the better part of an hour pacing his cell. He’d inspected the walls for cracks, kicked at the hay searching for hidden objects, and scraped at the floor to find any loose stones. All he’d turned up were some rat bones and cockroaches.

He squeezed at the bridge of his nose, tiredness beginning to cloud his thoughts. Last night he hadn’t had the time to stop and rest, too busy blending in with the chaos. Now that things were calm, his brain was growing sluggish with lack of sleep. The adrenaline high had long worn off, and Sylvain wanted nothing more than to put his head down and pass out.

Instead of anything useful, his mind kept summoning images of the king, of Felix, and how he’d looked in the sparkling sunlight, turning to face him, long hair flowing behind him. Felix, and his imposing obsidian wings, a blade angled against his throat, dark eyes flashing dangerously. 

Sylvain really had to go and be a gay disaster at the least opportune moment.

Rubbing roughly at his eyes, he sat against the rough wall. He couldn’t bring himself to lay down on the disgusting hay, so he settled for bringing his knees up to lay his head on. However, he felt something poke into his hips once he brought up his legs. Confused, Sylvain dug into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled envelope he had stolen from Ashe’s room. He had forgotten about it.

The intrigue chased some tiredness away, and Sylvain flipped open the flap to pull out the letter within. Something was wrapped in the pages. He began unfolding the papers, reading the scrawled words at the top. ‘A Letter of Repentance’ followed by several lengthy paragraphs of tiny script that Sylvain couldn’t care less about. What caught his attention and brightened his muddy mood was a pair of lockpick tools that came tumbling out of the pages onto his lap.

He grinned, huffing out a silent laugh. 

“Dedue,” Sylvain whispered. “I have an idea.”

* * *

“Hey,” Sylvain called at the dungeon-keeper, who was on his thousandth game of solitaire. He didn’t respond. “Hey,” Sylvain called again, louder this time. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey. Hey!”

“Shut up,” he finally groaned, rubbing at his forehead. 

“No. Do you have a hangover? Real unprofessional, man. I can’t believe this is the kind of people working here. Honestly, I expected better, but I guess I shouldn’t have.”

“What are you implying?” glared the man, a warning in his tone.

“I can tell exactly the sort of person you are just by looking at you. Lazy. Selfish. Entitled. Of course the only job you could perform would be sitting around doing nothing all day.”

“Look,” said the man as he dragged himself to his feet, stepping away from his table to walk toward Sylvain’s cell. “Please just be quiet. I get that you’re not happy, but I assure you you’ll be a lot more upset if I have to poke you full of holes.”

Sylvain gave him his cutest smile as he came to stand before his cage, just out of arms reach. “You’re a lot more polite than I gave you credit for. Tell you what, since you asked so nicely, I’ll give you a present. Catch!” and he tossed a hairy, saucer-sized spider at him.

The man’s eyes widened impossibly huge as he backpedaled violently, his shriek of terror echoing off the stone walls. He collided with the bars of the opposite cell, and Dedue threw his arms through the gaps to wrap around the man’s torso. Though he was restrained, he still wriggled, searching about desperately.

“Is it on me?” He asked, voice strained. “Gods, I hate this job.”

“Do not fret,” Dedue comforted. “You will be fired soon.”

Sylvain reached for the lockpick tools in his pocket and stuck his arms through the bars as well, turning to angle the picks into the keyhole. When he was a child, Miklan had locked him in the prison cells of their estate with nothing but a set of picks. Sylvain hadn’t been able to escape despite hours of trial and error and had only gotten out because someone had found him. After that, he dedicated himself to learning to pick locks until he had mastered the art, just in case Miklan ever got any funny ideas again. It had been a fruitless endeavor, as his brother never tried the same stunt, and the skill had been gathering dust until now.

He was rusty, but as he struggled with the odd angle, the memories of how to move came trickling back. He felt around the inner mechanisms as the dungeon-keeper gave up squirming against Dedue’s overpowering strength.

“I can’t handle juicy-looking bugs,” he confessed pathetically. “Why’d you have to go and do that?” 

“Sorry,” Sylvain apologized. “It was the only thing I could think of. Oh, and I take back all that mean stuff I said about you. You seem to be an alright guy. We should get drinks sometime.”

“Don’t even talk about drinks,” he groaned. “I really do have a hangover.”

“Partied too hard, huh?”

“My girlfriend broke up with me last week.”

“Oh, yikes.”

“Rest and water will cure your hangover quickly,” Dedue assured him. 

The man began to sniffle. “Nobody cares about me,” he quavered. 

“Uh. There, there.” Dedue patted his torso, but to no avail. The dungeon-keeper began sobbing. Dedue looked at Sylvain and mouthed ‘how much longer?’

“This is a lot harder than it looks,” he spoke over the inconsolable man. He continued fiddling for a few more minutes before he heard the tumblers click. With careful hands, Sylvain turned the lock and pushed open the door. Grinning to himself in pride, he pocketed the picks and snatched the keys from the wall. 

Dedue looked monumentally uncomfortable, still murmuring words of consolation to the miserable man in his arms. Sylvain walked past to slip the key into the lock of Dedue’s cell, twisting it. It came unlocked with a sharp clatter, and he pulled it open. Dedue retracted his arms from around the man, who continued to stand there spilling tears onto the floor. He was too far into his breakdown to do anything about the prisoners escaping under his watch. Looking at him now, Sylvain couldn’t help but feel terrible. As Dedue walked out of his cell, Sylvain approached the dungeon-keeper. Wavering for a moment, he placed a hesitant, cautious hand on his shoulder.

“Look, I really am sorry about before. I realize the things I said were out of line.” The man gave no indication he was listening. He just brought up his hands to wipe the tear tracks on his cheeks and chin, snot dribbling from his nose.

“I know things seem… really difficult for you, right now,” Sylvain continued. “But try and look at it a different way. Sure, your girlfriend left you, and you’re probably gonna get canned, and you’ve got a killer hangover, but these are all just opportunities! Except for the hangover bit, that’s on you.”

Dedue was standing by the stairs leading out of the dungeon, looking urgently at Sylvain. They needed to get out as quickly as possible before anyone came to check on them.

Sylvain nodded quickly and patted the shoulder of the man. “This just means you can go out and find someone new! Someone who will really care for you. Or, work on yourself for a little bit, anything works as long as you’re moving forward. Find a new job, one you don’t hate! Think of all this as the beginning of your life as a new man. Change your perspective!” All the while, Sylvain was inching the man into Dedue’s cell.

“My… perspective?” The man asked, voice wobbling. He sniffled as he rubbed the snot from his face. Sylvain nudged him the rest of the way into the cell and shut the door, locking it.

“Oh, yeah, once you start looking at your problems as opportunities, you’ll feel way better.” Sylvain stepped back to hang the keys on the wall. In an act of sympathy, he gathered the cards scattered on the old splintered table. 

“Sorry to lock you in here, but I can’t be sure you won’t rat us out.” Sylvain held out the deck as the man nodded, seeming to be calming down as he accepted the cards. He sat on the floor and started another game of solitaire.

“Things’ll be okay in the end,” Sylvain assured, before turning and jogging to where Dedue was waiting. 

He said, “We mustn’t get distracted. If they find us again, our fate may not be so easily thwarted,” his sea-green eyes intense.

“Right, sorry, let’s get on with it, yeah? This guard uniform still works as a disguise. I doubt they’re expecting me to pull the same trick twice, especially when they think I’m still locked up. I’ll make it look like I’m escorting you to a different location, but to be safe, we’ll try and avoid patrols. I familiarized myself with the routes and times, so we shouldn’t have a problem.” Sylvain busied himself straightening his armor, brushing dirt from the gleaming steel surfaces as Dedue fixed him with an appraising look.

“You are much more resourceful than I expected.”

Sylvain gave a sly grin. “What can I say? I’m a crafty guy.”

* * *

The afternoon sun shone overhead as the pair snuck out of the castle’s back entrance. Once they were far away from the castle grounds, walking through the city streets, Sylvain allowed himself to sigh in relief.

“What a day, huh?” He said as he stretched his arms overhead. 

“Indeed,” Dedue nodded in agreement. Around them, the market was in full swing, stalls laid out with various goods, people milling about, weaving through crowds. The sky was a pleasant baby blue, dotted with the occasional fluffy white cloud or songbird. The smell of cinnamon and sugar hung about in tantalizing swirls. Sylvain found the source to be a baker selling dessert buns and rolls. The sound of countless conversations filled the street with life, accompanied by the bustle of footsteps. No one was paying enough attention to give them any odd looks. Behind them, the castle receded with each road they went down.

“I don’t know about you, but I am absolutely exhausted.” Sylvain stifled a yawn, his need to sleep dangling over his head like a heavy rock on a fraying string. 

“Rest and water would be a fine remedy for you, as well.”

Sylvain looked up at Dedue and smiled. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a voice like a cello?”

“No.”

“I’d love to hear it more. What do you say we chat over dinner and get to know each other better?” Sylvain sent a charming wink his way. “My treat, of course.”

“I am not interested,” Dedue responded with a shake of his head. Sylvain sighed dramatically.

“Bummer. Was I too forward?”

“I find your insincerity troubling,” he answered as he walked, not sparing a glance his way.

Sylvain hummed in response, looking up at a pair of birds taking flight from a distant tree. The edge of the kingdom was growing nearer, and he could see the forest he’d left his mare, Radiance, in. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

“Perhaps it would be for the best if I was the last.”

Sylvain huffed a mirthless laugh. “Oh, for sure.”

Once they reached the woods, Dedue bid him farewell and disappeared through the trees, headed south. Sylvain called well-wishes after him before he delved further into the forest himself. 

He quickly located the small clearing from yesterday, finding his horse sipping from a gurgling brook. She looked up at his approach, ears perked, and trotted happily over to nudge him.

“Hey, Raid,” he smiled, reaching up to rub her neck. “I may have bitten off more than I can chew.”

She snorted and nosed at his helmet. Sylvain removed it to save her the effort.

“We should get moving. Search parties would find us here.” He tucked the helmet under his arm and took her reins, guiding her deeper into the woods. 

* * *

Felix breathed in slowly, then exhaled out of his nose as he massaged his temples, eyes closed. “So you’re telling me,” he began slowly, his aggravation evident, “that not only did that failure of an assassin escape  _ again _ , but also the man arrested this morning?”

“That’s correct, Your Majesty,” said the messenger girl standing before the doors leading out of his study. Her head was bowed, hands gripping so tightly onto the strap of her bag that they trembled. The late afternoon sun sent Felix’s shadow stretching nearly to her feet. He was sitting at his desk, a document midway through being read pushed aside. Ashe was standing to the side, looking like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands as he shifted restlessly.

Felix moved to rub at his eyes. The ache that had manifested after he woke had only gotten more severe as the day went on. It was not good for his patience. That assassin escaping, he could live with, but the other man was a different story. For the past six years, the incident at Remire had troubled his thoughts. It was a particularly virulent sting for a lead to have appeared after all this time and then disappear just as quickly. Now, all he had was their names, reported by the dungeon-keeper before he was fired. 

After another weary sigh, he said, “You are dismissed.”

The messenger bowed, nearly losing her hat before she straightened and hurried out the door. Once it clicked shut behind her, Felix leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. He would make certain his entire guard doubled down on their training. It was unacceptable for one man to outsmart everyone on his staff.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Your Majesty?” asked Ashe courteously. 

“Painkillers. I have a migraine,” Felix grumbled back. Ashe nodded.

“I could tell.” Almost silently, Ashe slipped from the study as well. 

Now alone, Felix stood, pushing back the chair from his desk. He walked around the desk, a hand trailing over the smooth surface of the wood as he approached the small section of the wall that had been curtained off. It had been a while since he had parted these curtains, and pulling them back disturbed a cloud of dust. Felix blinked at the board beneath, pinned with a map of the kingdom and the surrounding areas. Circled in red was Remire, next to the report he had received about it. There were areas in the surrounding woods that had been circled and then crossed out-- areas that had been searched for possible clues that had come up empty. A report from his head researcher detailing the strange traces of magic that she had never seen before. A long list of names of the people that had gone missing, and then statements from any relatives that hadn’t lived in the village. The drafted theories he had spent days thinking up, only for them to meet more dead-ends. Countless investigations and nothing to show for it. 

With narrowed eyes, he folded his arms and surveyed his fruitless work from years past. He had all but given up on finding answers, yet could never bring himself to take down the board. Now, he was glad he hadn’t. It seemed there were others out there with connections to Remire. 

He glared at the eastern mountain range on the map, separating Albinea from Faerghus. Reaching up, he stuck an extra pin where Faerghus began. He had a feeling that somehow, the holy kingdom was involved. However, he wasn’t sure they’d allow a team of investigators entry to the kingdom given their attitude towards the caravans he’d sent five years ago. It would need to be a covert operation. He wanted to know what exactly was happening over there, and if the rumor of the church demanding his life was true. At the same time, he’d have people look into the strange man that had tried to assassinate him, should Felix’s suspicions about him hailing from Faerghus be correct.

It wasn’t much, but that man— Sylvain— was the closest thing to a lead he’d had in a long time.

_ I’ll find you, _ Felix thought, gritting his teeth.  _ No matter what it takes. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment telling me what you think so far :^)
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta reader! They've really helped me form this into something cohesive! they are pond_skater here on ao3 and glacialblades on tumblr
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at strawbabeytart and twitter @punchtheocean


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